


New York, New York - It's a Helluva Town

by elrhiarhodan



Category: White Collar
Genre: Exhibitionism, F/M, M/M, New York City, Public Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-05-08
Updated: 2011-05-08
Packaged: 2017-10-19 04:07:30
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,224
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/196692
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/elrhiarhodan/pseuds/elrhiarhodan
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Elizabeth Burke likes to have private sex in public places - the NYC transit system, the Metropolitan Museum of Art, Central Park.  Peter likes to indulge her - over and over again.  Neal is enjoying a quiet afternoon in the Temple of Dendur pavilion.  He doesn't expect to encounter Bad Peter and Sex Fairy El.  Neither of them are wearing underwear.</p>
            </blockquote>





	New York, New York - It's a Helluva Town

“El, honey - I'm back." Peter called up the stairs as he closed the door. There's nothing a run in like the early days of springtime in New York, and their own little corner in the outer boroughs was putting on a good show. Not that he was the type of guy who made a big deal about gardens and growing things, but Peter certainly appreciated how much more pleasant a Saturday morning run was when the trees were in bloom and he didn't have to dodge filthy puddles of melting snow.

"It's going to be a warm one...anything you'd like to do today - or do you want to stick with what we discussed last night?"

Peter started up the stairs when El came out of their bedroom, wearing the outfit he privately called "trouble".

“Let’s go to the Met this afternoon, by bus. That is, if you're not too tired.” A coy smile played at the edge of her lips, and her eyes sparkled - a combination of mischief, lust and recklessness that never failed to send Peter's blood straight to his groin. "Go shower, your clothes are out on the bed."

El swished past him on the stairs, a combination of gypsy and hippie poetess in a long skirt made of some pastel colored sheer, crinkly material and an equally sheer white cotton blouse, unbuttoned to the top of her breasts – her bra-less breasts. “Go – shower, you stink! And hurry, please. I’ll take care of Satchmo.”

Peter bounded up the stairs, when El got into this mood, he couldn’t move fast enough. A quick shower, cold – because Peter didn’t think he would last without some external dampener to his lust, and then – to dress. The hand made, custom-tailored black leather pants were a gift from El for their fifth anniversary – after they discovered how embarrassing this little game could get when he wore more porous clothing. They still fit as perfectly as they did the first time he wore them – regular runs, pickup basketball and chasing Neal Caffrey kept Peter Burke in excellent physical condition. A black cotton and silk Elie Tahari t-shirt, also tailored to fit, was a gift to himself after catching the Dutchman, and Italian loafers, as fine as anything in Neal’s inherited wardrobe, were a present from El after the last pair got ruined.

These clothes were as much of a costume as the ill-fitting suits and ugly ties he wore to work. Most people failed to look past the goofy persona they created. This wardrobe was helped create what he privately (and with a little self-embarrassment) called “Bad Peter.”

Peter grabbed his phone, wallet, and keys. And his sun glasses – the only things he would normally wear during the week, leaving the badge and gun behind. The last thing he wanted was to be identified as law enforcement on these little outings.

He found his wife downstairs, practically hopping from one foot to the other in suppressed excitement. “Are you ready, El?” Peter kept his voice pitched low and steady – using a stern tone he normally reserved for dealing with probies when they made stupid mistakes. “Really ready?”

“Yes, Peter.” El’s voice was a breathless whisper, and her hands twisted together.

“Then let me see.”

El slowly raised her skirt – past her knees, past her slim, toned thighs, and over her hips. Her breathing quickened as she saw her husband’s nostrils flair in response to the sight of her waxed pussy barely covered by a pair of thong panties.

“Nice. Now turn around and bend over.” El quickly complied, and Peter gave her two quick, stinging spanks on each firm ass cheek. “Is that enough to keep you?”

“Yes, Peter. Thank you, Peter.” El turned around, dropped her skirt, and gave her husband a scorching, up-from-under look that promised both heaven and hell.

“Then let’s get going.”

The game really started on the subway ride from Brooklyn to Manhattan, with El straddling Peter’s leather clad thigh. The swaying movement of the train and the friction of the polished lambskin and the tangle of cotton skirts against her nearly bare pussy and still smarting ass were slowly driving her crazy.

If the other riders in the nearly empty subway car thought it was odd for a grown woman to sit on a man’s leg when there were plenty of empty seats, they kept their thoughts and their eyes to themselves. When the train turned after pulling out of the Atlantic Avenue Station, before heading non-stop into Manhattan, Peter raised his thigh and she braced herself against it. The pressure against her clit was just too much, and El orgasmed, for the first time that day, in a near soundless whimper of pleasure.

“Did you just come, El?”

El stared at her husband, his eyes shielded by the dark, aviator-style sunglasses he preferred, the only expression visible on his face was that smirk, that shark-like grin that drove her insane.

“Did you?”

El bent forward, pressed a knee gently into her husband’s groin and whispered into his ear, “Yes, can’t you smell it?”

Peter growled in response. He slid a hand up under El’s blouse, and first cupping her breast before he started to tug at one already tumescent nipple. “Come again before we get to Penn, and I’ll give you a really special present.”

El leaned into that warm, calloused palm, letting her long dark hair fall forward – not so much to hide Peter’s hand – but to tease anyone who may be looking. Were they really seeing what was happening? The thought of strangers staring at her as she covertly took her pleasure was a sharp goad to her already drenched sex.

El came two more times before the subway finally pulled into Penn Station.

They almost had to fight their way out of Penn Station – the magnificent weather was a big attraction for the bridge and tunnel set, but Peter never let go of El’s hand. When they finally made it from subway platform to the main concourse and then to the mezzanine level, El wanted to stretch her legs a bit and made for the stairs up to 7th Avenue, but Peter grabbed her waist from behind and maneuvered her to the upside escalator.

He growled possessively into her ear, “Do you really think I’m going to let you take two steps from me, dressed like that? Besides, isn’t this better?” With a quick tug, Peter deposited El in front of him on the moving staircase, and nudged her buttocks with his erection. The ninety second-long ride to street level should have been too short for her satisfaction, but the thought of her husband’s excitement and the pressure of the surrounding crowd of day-trippers was just enough for a quick, secret pop.

A quick two-minute walk from the station exit to the bus stop on 32nd Street was enough to clear the sexual muzziness from their heads, though Peter was still sporting wood – only somewhat restrained behind the button fly of the leather pants.

“Your chariot awaits, madam.” Chin held high, El boarded the empty M4 bus and walked towards the back, taking position against a steel pole near the rear exit door. Peter paid their fares and followed. The bus idled for a few more minutes as other passengers got on – a few middle-aged tourists and a gaggle of pre-teen girls who drifted to the very back of the bus.

For the first time since they left the house in Brooklyn, Peter took off his sunglasses – actually taking off the persona of “Bad Peter” and becoming her adoring husband. He gently tucked a forefinger under El’s chin – and looked her in his wife’s endless blue eyes. “Are you sure you want to do this? This is a big step – when the bus pulls out, there’s no turning back. ”

El looked right back into her husband’s eyes – no coyness, no game playing, no false shyness or pretend submission. “I want this – I need this – and I want you to have this too.”

As the bus pulled away and lumbered east down 32nd Street, Peter put his sun glasses back on, and leaned in against El, crowding her against the steel pole and kissed her, lovingly at first, then harder and more demanding. El whimpered into Peter’s mouth as the line of metal buttons covering his crotch pressed hard into her lower belly. The pole behind her slipped between the cheeks of her ass, while her husband’s hand dug almost painfully into her scalp. She came again, when Peter nipped at her lower lip and finally released her mouth.

El stood on tiptoe and tugged Peter’s head to her lips. “That’s four, and you haven’t even fucked me yet.” She nipped his ear sharply, and was rewarded with a shudder from that reverberated all along her body.

“Baby, you’ll be lucky if I don’t have to carry you off this bus.”

The uptown M4 bus was a notoriously slow ride, even on the weekends, taking almost an hour from 32nd Street to 82nd and Madison – the stop for the Metropolitan Museum of Art. Peter put that time to good use, slowly grinding his cock against his wife. As the bus lumbered up Madison Avenue, stopping every other block to pickup (and occasionally discharge) passengers, Peter held onto his wife’s ass, rubbing one long, calloused finger between her cheeks, slowly feeding the layers of her skirt into her tight hole. At some point, after the bus left the 42nd Street stop, it was packed so tightly that no more people could get on.

Standing between a pair of German tourists (good camera gear, bad body odor) and an elderly woman clinging to her overstuffed shopping cart (why did they allow people to bring those things on the bus) Peter stood solidly over El, who clung provocatively against the steel pole – hands over her head, braless breasts out-thrust, completely ignoring the leering eyes of the other passengers. At 50th Street, he flipped El around so that he pressed against her from behind, and took advantage of the pressing crowd to slowly lift her loose, flowing skirt over the lower curves of her ass cheeks and drape it over his hand. At 52nd Street, as the Germans pushed passed them to get off (probably to snap bad pictures of Rockefeller Center or St. Patrick’s), Peter reach down, popped open the buttons on his fly. Using the cover of El’s skirt, he pulled out his cock, and in a maneuver timed precisely with the jerking acceleration of the M4, Peter shoved himself in his wife’s dripping cunt.

As he pressed into her from behind, face impassive, voice low and tight, Peter whispered “Do you know how wet you are? You’re like a river, you’re a bitch in heat. I’ve made you come almost half a dozen times this morning – now, made ME come. But no one can know.”

Thrilled at the dirty words, El took a deep breath, or as deep a one as she could, pressed shoulder to groin from the front, and covered like a mare from the back with Peter’s thick cock stuffed into her. She began to rhythmically squeeze her pelvic muscles, slowly driving her husband, and her self insane.

For the next 25 blocks, as El milked her husband’s cock, she exercised just as much control over her facial muscles. The first time they had done this, she could barely restrain herself, and practically gave an elderly woman sitting across from her a heart attack as she humped against the pole and squealed out her climax. After a decade of marriage – a decade of playing both the tormentor and the tormented – El’s control was now nearly perfect. She could keep her normally animated face perfectly blank, but nothing could stop the flush from her hairline to her breast, or keep her nipples from furling into tight peaks.

At 72nd Street, just ten blocks from their destination, the old woman with the cart needed to get off (as did Peter, for that matter). She didn’t try to push between them, but as she dragged the wire cart off the bus, she shoved against Peter’s back, which, in turn, pushed Peter deeper and harder against El, and El harder against the steel pole she now straddled. Another unexpected jostle pressed her clit against the unyielding pole, and she came, hard. That set Peter off, and to El’s secret delight – he completely lost control and as he came, he buried his face in her hair.

Once more using the cover of her skirt, Peter pulled out of his wife’s tight, overflowing sex, the softening head of his cock trailing semen across her ass. He tucked himself back in, and with the crowded bus now a bit less crowded, he dropped down into a seat, pulling El with him, across his lap. Her arms wound around him like ivy around an old tree.

Peter looked at his wife’s flushed face, drinking in her glowing eyes, her swollen lips, and he was humbled. Ten years, a decade of marriage – and Elizabeth still had the capacity to astonish him.

It wasn’t just these games – his desire to dominate and hers to challenge that dominance – it was the endless well of her love that defined him, brought him joy, made him strong. He threaded a hand through her sweat-dampened hair and kissed her. So involved did the two of them become in their kiss that they didn’t notice the NY transit cop standing in front of them.

“You two – aren’t you a bit old to be sucking face in public?”

Peter slowly lifted his head from El’s sweet mouth, pushed up his sun glasses and gave the man his most intimidating glare – the one that could send any one of his junior agents into hiding. “Is there a problem, officer – with me kissing my wife?”

“Uhmm, uh – no – just you know – you should get a hotel room.” The cop stammered, cowed – and saved from some wholly unexpected and barely perceived threat to his continued existence by the bus driver’s announcement that they were now at 83rd Street, the stop for the Metropolitan Museum of Art.

“You know, officer,” El drawled, “I just think we might.”

Although both El and Peter were a little weak in the knees, they were able to make it off the bus and out onto the tree-lined Madison Avenue without incident and burst into gales of uncontrollable laughter.

“Hell, El – you’re crazier than I am.” Peter finally caught his breath.

“So, where’s my present?” El twirled in the sunshine, her skirt (with quite a few damp patches) flaring out, then falling neatly around her legs..

“You mean what you just got wasn’t enough?”

“No – and you know what I want.”

“Then hold on a sec, I need to check availability.” Peter pulled out his phone, and with a few taps, he able to confirm that El’s present was still on the move, but would definitely be accessible very shortly. “Yes - your present is on it’s way. I’ll need to recheck in a bit – get the delivery point confirmed.”

El sucked in her breath – and stepped back, the reality of soon to be fulfilled desires almost too much to bear.

________________

 

It was just short walk from Madison to Fifth Avenue, and the grand front entrance to the Metropolitan Museum of Art. Hundreds of people – tourists and New Yorkers alike, were seated on the enormous front steps leading up to the grand Beaux Arts building. The fountains that flanked either side of the staircase were bubbling and banners hung over the museum’s massive bronze doors snapped in the light early afternoon breeze.

Peter scanned the crowd, looking for something, and then checked his phone again. “It seems like there’s a bit of a delay. Your present is still in transit.”

“I don’t mind – let’s sit here and pretend were tourists.” El sank down onto a step and pooled her skirt between her legs. “I think I need to dry off a bit.”

Peter sat down behind her, wrapping his arms around her shoulders, pulling her back between his thighs. To any one passing by, they looked like a pair of well dressed tourists, vaguely European, just relaxing in the sun.

“Peter, will you take it out?”

“El – “

“Come on, please – my shirt it white, it won’t show.”

“Elizabeth Burke – I am NOT jerking myself off onto your back. Not now.”

El frowned in playful disappointment – she hadn’t really expected Peter to masturbate into her hair – but she did love teasing him. So they just sat in the sun, until Peter’s phone chimed, and he pulled her to her feet.

“Let’s go.”

El skipped up a few stairs, expecting Peter to be right behind her. When he didn’t immediately follow, she turned around and saw him standing still, staring down at the step she just vacated. “Peter?” He looked up at her, that deadly smirk even more shark-line. She held out her hand and Peter took it – yanking her back down a few steps, tight against his big, warm body.

“Honey – you left a wet spot.”

They paid their admission and affixed the little metal “M” badges on each other. El wanted to put Peter’s on through one of the button holes on his fly, but she settled for a more sedate location on the collar of his tee shirt. Peter used the opportunity to rub his knuckles against her breast before clipping the tag to one of the flounces of her blouse.

El was a bit startled when Peter started pulling her towards the massive store that dominated the museum lobby. This was not where she was expecting him to go.

“Peter?”

“El? Don’t you want your present?”

“From the gift store?

“Isn’t that where you usually get presents?”

El couldn’t believe it – they had talked and planned and discussed the ramifications. Could she have completely misunderstood Peter, or was this his way of telling her he had changed his mind?

“Gotcha!” The sunglasses were off and Peter was grinning from ear to ear. “The look upon your face…a real Kodak moment.”

“Peter Burke – you do that to me again, I’m going to …”

“Nah – no you won’t”

“So – we doing this?”

“Your present’s in the Dendur Pavilion, let’s go get it.”

________________

Neal loved the airy, glass enclosed pavilion that housed the ancient stone temple. He also loved that the building was a gift from the Egyptian government – preserved for everyone when it otherwise would have been lost to the new gods of progress. He loved that this was something he couldn’t steal or forge or con someone out of. He loved the ancientness of it, the permanence, and the odd perfection of the modern glass enclosure and the great green park just outside.

The week has been busy, Peter and his team closing out a handful of fraud cases that had been hanging around, seemingly unsolvable, until Neal found a connection between them. Arrests were made, and the matter turned over to the DOJ for prosecution. But the best was the look in Peter’s eyes when the U.S. Attorney congratulated him and he gave the credit back to Neal. There was talk about having Neal testify as to how he made the actual connection between four seemingly unrelated cases. Even Hughes thought the idea had merit.

Neal felt he could dine off of that look for a month – the pride and the confidence Peter had in him. He’d be lying to himself if he said it was almost as good as pulling a great con. The way that look from Peter made him feel was better, in ways that Neal didn’t quite want to explore.

Another area Neal didn’t want to think about too much was Peter. It had been that way for years - three on the chase, more than four in prison - Neal didn’t want to admit how much he was fascinated by the man. He once said to Kate that half the fun of the game was being chased by Peter, and Kate told him he had a Daddy complex. That couldn’t be further from the truth - even from the beginning, his feelings were the opposite of filial.

He couldn’t remember the first time he dreamed about Peter, maybe after the job in Venice, the first time that Peter came close to catching him. Something about him, despite the ugly suit, preyed on Neal’s mind - maybe it it was the way he stood on the bridge over the Grand Canal as Neal jumped onto a passing vaporetto, with the sun behind him. He was solid, real - like a rock, and Neal carried that image with him. The dream, like most dreams, was a combination of the real and surreal - Peter in front of him, holding his wrists, but behind him, fucking him. He woke, uncomfortable and aroused, to find that Kate was pegging him with a strap-on dildo. He bit his lips as she plowed into him, so not to cry out “Peter” as he climaxed.

It didn’t matter. When Kate finished with him, all she said was, “you were moaning ‘Peter, Peter' in your sleep; so I thought you’d enjoy a taste of Peter.” Neal remembered lying alone in bed, on the wet spot, and crying for no reason at all.

Dreams became fantasies - especially after Peter caught him with the bonds. When the cuffs were finally locked the handcuffs on him, Neal became almost unbearably aroused. It wasn’t the fetishistic feel of the cuffs, or even the excitement of the chase. It was sitting in the backseat of the standard-issue FBI sedan, next to Peter - their thighs touching from hip to knee - breathing in the smell of him, the solid reality of him. The entire ride back to the FBI building, Peter said nothing. He sat there, just looking at Neal. At some point, Neal realized that they were breathing in rhythm - perfectly in sync.

Neal played those moments in his head during the months of incarceration before his trial, and later, in prison, he would stroke himself to the same rhythm of memory of their shared breaths. Now, sometimes when they were alone in the office, he would try to sync his breathing to Peter’s - but it never quite worked.

He also didn’t really like to think about Peter and sex, because that meant he would be betraying Elizabeth. Before he met her, Elizabeth Burke was merely an abstract concept. Peter would naturally have a wife, and she’d be beautiful, smart and funny, but she really didn’t matter. But the reality of Elizabeth what that she was almost as important to him as Peter. And Neal would let himself go back to the deepest hole in that damn SuperMax before he hurt her, and having any sort of non-professional (okay, sexual) relationship with Peter would wound her beyond measure. It also didn’t help that Neal wanted to fuck her almost as badly as he wanted to fuck Peter.

So Neal sat there, on the stone benches, half-heartedly sketching - trying not to think about Peter. Trying not to think about Elizabeth. Trying not to think about fucking and breathing and fucking.

So absorbed in his own thoughts - his own not-thoughts, that he didn’t even look up when someone sat down next to him, facing out to the windows.

“Hello Neal.”

Neal’s brain recognized the voice, but his eyes were playing tricks on him. The voice was Peter’s, but the man sitting next to him was not Peter, at least not any version of Peter that occupied daytime reality. This not-Peter was dressed in all black, tailored in casual elegance was nothing like the rumpled FBI agent he thought he knew. The only thing that was familiar were the unfashionable aviator-style sunglasses that hid Peter’s eyes.

“Peter?” A wealth of questions filled that one word.

“Whatcha’ doing?” Not-Peter leaned in and planted a hand between Neal’s legs, his thumb an inch from Neal’s cock (and if Neal couldn’t exercise better control, he’s be closing that distance very soon). Neal closed his eyes, took a deep breath and opened them again - expecting to see Real-Peter, in a badly fitting cotton sports shirt and off the rack pants or whatever he normally wore during non-work hours (Neal didn’t think Elizabeth, as tolerate as she may be, would let Peter anywhere outside their Brooklyn townhouse in old college tee-shirts and sweatpants). But no, it was still Not-Peter, dressed like something out of Neal’s darkest wet dreams.

“Umm, sketching...what are you doing here, Peter?”

“Oh, just enjoying the lovely weather. Elizabeth wanted to come to the Met.” If it was possible to vocalize a smirk, then Peter/Not-Peter certainly did on the word “come.”

“Elizabeth’s here?” Neal was relieved - if Peter’s wife was here, then he could keep his reactions (including his unruly cock) in check by focusing on Elizabeth or on Peter/Elizabeth - husband and wife.

“Honey - look what I found.” Peter’s voice, from Not-Peter’s mouth called out, against all basic tenets of museum etiquette, and sure enough, Elizabeth Burke skipped into view. But like Not-Peter, this was Not-Elizabeth - instead of the casual elegance of a successful businesswoman or a suburban wife out for a weekend date with her husband, this not-Elizabeth was dressed like some demented sex-fairy. She twirled in front of Neal, and the sunlight pouring into the courtyard turned the sheer cotton of her blouse practically transparent.

“Hiya Neal. Been here long?” Elizabeth chirped - no - that had to be wrong, Elizabeth Burke did not chirp.

“About a hour, why? I was just getting ready to leave...” It wasn’t hard to miss the sharp looks between husband and wife, even if Peter’s face was half-hidden by those damn sunglasses. “What? What’s going on here?” Neal suddenly knew how Alice felt, tumbling down the rabbit hole. As Peter leaned in closer, Neal started to sweat - this wasn’t happening. Then he felt it, Peter’s thumb - just his thumb, slowly stroking his cock. And Elizabeth was standing there - watching her husband masturbate him in public.

Neal swallowed convulsively, his throat bone dry. He looked down at Peter’s hand, his thumb rubbing against the fine wool of his trousers, against the flare of his cock head. He looked up at Elizabeth, and she was watching Peter’s hand and smiling like a cat with a bowl of cream. He finally looked at Peter’s face, and for the first time since they started working together, Neal couldn’t read his expression. He needed to see Peter’s eyes - he needed to see the reality beneath this slick veneer. Neal reached up to take off Peter’s sunglasses, only to find his wrist captured by Elizabeth - and then she released him just as quickly.

Neal’s hand dropped away, but his eyes never left Peter - trying to divine something, anything. Peter leaned in still closer and whispered into Neal’s ear - “Don’t you think it’s time we finished this dance?” To his horror, to his delight, Peter brushed his lips first against Neal’s earlobe, then across his cheek, his tongue flicking against the stubble on his chin, and finally settling on his lips. At first, his kiss was delicate - but not unsure - and then changed into something more persuasive, seeking compliance rather than demanding obedience.

Neal wasn’t sure who moaned, but the sound galvanized him. He reached up and shoved his fingers through Peter’s hair and deepened their kissed. Neal’s tongue thrust into the other man’s mouth, biting at the other man’s lips, and then he pulled back and grabbed the sunglasses off of Peter’s face. What he saw there shocked him - there was affection (a semi-familiar expression), lust (unbearably attractive) and something else - something Neal occasionally caught out of the corner of his eye - something that almost frightened him. Peter’s other hand cupped the back of Neal’s head and brought him close again. This time when they kissed, it was like two gladiators locked in combat, each man striving for dominance.

All of a sudden, Neal felt another hand on him - a smaller hand, on his thigh, also rubbing against his cock. This time, Peter broke off their kiss and Neal looked down to see Elizabeth, kneeling at his feet. “Peter, do you know your wife’s not wearing a bra?” Neal burst out, “and I don’t think she’s wearing any panties.”

Neal didn’t think that Peter was going to like these observations about his wife’s undergarments, or the lack thereof, but since the universe seemed to have shifted two degrees to the left, Peter’s reply seemed almost normal. “When I spanked her this morning, El was wearing a thong, so I guess that qualifies as ‘panties.’” Peter casually said, as if they were discussing the weather or sports scores, “I bet they’re soaked through right now - I fucked her on the bus ride uptown.”

Elizabeth chuckled, and added - “And I humped his leg on the ride from Brooklyn. Came three times before we got to Penn Station. I may come again from just watching you men kiss.”

The shirt and tie and vest Neal wore, like modern day armor against the world, all of a sudden felt as constricting as a straight jacket. Wonderful, she’s beautiful, smart, funny, devoted and multi-orgasmic. Truly the perfect woman. “So, um, Elizabeth… you’re okay with this?”

“This?” Elizabeth teased him.

“Me and Peter, kissing and ummm”

Peter snorted a laugh - “ummm, that’s very eloquent, Caffrey.”

Elizabeth replied “I’ve been all right with this for a while. I’ve got a dildo named ‘Neal’ and a buttplug called ‘Caffrey.’”

 _“I’ve got a dildo named ‘Neal’ and a buttplug called ‘Caffrey’.”_ Neal wasn’t sure he heard those words correctly, the way his heart was racing and the blood was pulsing in his head, echoing in his ears like the surf pounding into the shore. He couldn’t believe he was having this conversation with these Bizarro versions of Peter and Elizabeth, in the opened and very public Temple of Dendur pavilion, with families with baby strollers and sticky-fingered toddlers and dozens of pretty teenaged girls within earshot.

“What to you want from me?” Neal wanted to stand up, to move away from the heat and promise and desire, but to move away from those warm, stroking hands would be like exiling himself to the South Pole. Since he was paroled, Neal had been very careful - about touching and being touched.

First, out of loyalty to Kate, then - after Kate - nothing. He wanted what he could not have, and for the first time in his life, he wasn’t prepared to take what he wasn’t entitled to. But now, now it seemed that everything he wanted was being offered to him on a platter.

“Sweetheart, we want you. We’ve wanted you for a very long time. And I think you want us back.” Elizabeth’s eyes, a shade darker than his own, were like endlessly deep pools and Neal felt like he was drowning and the only thing keeping him afloat was her small hand stroking him.

Peter’s hand tightened in Neal’s hair, and Neal turned back to face him. “El and I like to play games, but this - this connection between us - is not a game.” Normally so ineloquent in personal matters, Peter found the perfect words at the perfect time.

“You’ve been a part of our marriage since I started chasing you. We were both attracted, enthralled - and if you hadn’t fucked up and escaped to chase that stupid bitch, Kate, you would have been ours months ago.”

“You thought you were so smart, offering yourself as a consultant to help me catch the Dutchman. I was all set to bring you on when you were released. El had the date marked in red on her calendar. Now, it’s all the more difficult - you’re my parolee, and I seem to spend half my day thinking about fucking you. We mess this up, and everything is lost. My job, you’ll be back in prison - this has the makings of a god-damned Greek tragedy.”

Neal tried not to react to the overwhelming joy. “Peter - I want you, you too, Elizabeth. More than anything, any con, any job - I want this - I want to live in your skins.” He felt like he’d been stripped naked, the words seemed to come from some untapped well of emotion - no, not untapped, only tightly capped. Neal then realized what he said, what he revealed. Maybe Peter and Elizabeth weren’t speaking of love or permanence, were they? Maybe they just wanted him to scratch an itch? It wouldn’t be the first time. The thought depressed and disgusted him.

Some of that must have shown on his face, and Peter took his hand off of Neal’s crotch and pulled him close. “Listen to me, Neal Caffrey - you’re in this, it’s forever - and when they cut that anklet for good, the only place you’re going is Brooklyn.”

* * *

Peter shifted around and straddled the stone bench. He put his hand over Neal’s heart, and could feel it racing. “Are you frightened, Neal?”

Neal shook his head ‘no,’ then laughed and looked Peter in the eye. “Yes, I’m terrified. Does that excite you?”

Elizabeth, still kneeling at their feet, let out a little moan, bit her lip and rocked back and forth on her heels. Both Peter and Neal looked down at her, and she couldn’t meet their eyes, but a flush started from her chest and rose up to hairline.

“Peter, what’s with your wife? She’s acting a little strange.”

“I think she just came. Again.” Peter held his hand out to Elizabeth, who was a little wobbly as got to her feet. “Honey – did I give you permission to come?” Peter heard Neal’s breath catch in his throat.

Peter considered the next move in this dance. El was pretty unstoppable at this point, but Neal had to be delicately played. He didn’t know how much prison had damaged him, but he knew that Kate’s betrayal left deep scars. The fun and games he and El enjoyed might be a bit too much for Neal, who seemed emotionally fragile these days. But faint of heart never won the fair maiden – or in this case, the fair man.

“Neal, El and I like our games and we want to include you – but only if you’re willing. We can keep this straight…” El giggled at the word ‘straight.’ “Straight vanilla, if you want.” Neal’s eyebrows disappeared into his hairline, as if he never expected Peter to know that there was anything but ‘vanilla’ when it came to sex.

“Or we can play this however you want. El likes me to fuck her in secret, in very public places – and I’m inclined to indulge her.” Neal licked his lips and Peter smiled. It seemed that Neal wasn’t exactly adverse to the idea.

Neal swallowed a few times and finally found his voice. “You did once hint that you and Elizabeth liked something a little more than a ‘romp in the sheets,’ but I wasn’t expecting this.”

“I’ve told you more than once, Neal – don’t underestimate me.”

“Peter, trust me – that will never happen again.” Neal smiled, an ear-to-ear grin that Peter hadn’t seen in quite a while. “If Elizabeth likes secret sex in public, what’s your kink?”

Peter didn’t say anything, he just smiled – that evil, shark’s grin. Neal’s eyes nearly popped out of his head. “And Elizabeth lets you?”

“Every chance she gets.” Elizabeth chimed in. “Peter, kiss Neal again. I want to watch up close.”

Peter leaned in, but Neal backed away a bit, and looked around. “You know, I really like this place – I’d hate to get kicked out.”

Elizabeth giggled and reassured Neal. “Oh, we’ve had sex in the Met at least a dozen times, twice inside the Temple itself. Now, are you going to kiss Peter?”

Peter cupped the back of Neal’s skull, his strong hands massaging his scalp. Neal writhed like a cat against the caress, and as he closed the distance, something caught his eye – a teenager with a cell phone camera.

“Shit – we can’t do this here, not unless you want pictures of us all over the Internet.”

Peter reared back, nearly toppling Elizabeth from his lap. He looked around and saw at least four people with cameras aimed in their direction. There was also a museum guard heading their way. There was no escaping the fact that two men and a woman kissing in public was extremely valuable fodder for the more salacious news sites – particularly when two of the participants were as devastatingly attractive as Neal and his wife. There probably would be a bounty on identities if the photos did get published.

Peter stood up and helped his wife to her feet. Neal got up with them, and picked up his nearly forgotten sketchbook. “I think we’d better find someplace a little more discrete.”

Elizabeth made a little moue of disappointment as she tucked her one hand into Neal’s and the other into Peter’s hands. “So, where to now?”

Peter looked at Neal. “Any suggestions, _partner_?”

Neal considered the question. “Honestly, the first time we’re together, I’d like it to be in a bed. Mine’s just across the Park.”

Elizabeth shivered. “Central Park…” Her eyes practically glowed with the possibilities.

Seeing Elizabeth’s crazy excitement, Neal couldn’t resist adding – “The sculpture garden on the roof is pretty wide open, but I wouldn’t mind playing lookout.” Neal shook his head, laughing at himself. “What am I getting myself into?”

Elizabeth looked up at Peter – “Please, pretty please?”

All Peter said was “Which way to the elevators?”

________________

Elizabeth clung to Peter and Neal as they made their way out of the Egyptian wing, back across the Great Hall, through the European Decorative Arts galleries. When Neal stopped at the display of horological instruments, and Peter had to bodily drag him away, she laughed.

Neal was like a magpie, almost congenitally attracted to pretty, shiny things. When they finally made it to the bank of elevators up to the rooftop sculpture garden, there was quite a crowd waiting. She leaned back against Neal, and tried the little hip and shoulder action that never failed to arouse Peter. Of course it worked, and Neal’s hands gripping her arms sent a thrill through her. What was even better was the expression on Peter’s face as he watched her, watched Neal, watched them. She’s been dreaming about this and they’d been talking about this for so long that it didn’t even feel real.

They finally made it into an elevator car, and the trip was way too short for her satisfaction, with Peter standing in front of her, and Neal behind. It was a day filled with one orgasm after another - which made it the best kind of day. By all rights, she should have been exhausted, but the excitement just kept building in her blood. And fell completely flat when they walked out onto the beautiful rooftop garden. It was completely, utterly wide open. Not a single sheltering structure or oversized planter or secret corner. No convenient air conditioning units. Even the sculptures - Jeff Koons, naturally - were light and airy and barely attached to the ground.

“Damn it! Damn it! Damn it!” If it wasn’t so juvenile, she would have stamped her foot. “The new roof garden at MOMA is much more _accomodating!._ ”

There were way too many people, and perversely, not enough of a crowd. Peter just stood there, smirking at her and Neal had an expression of slight horror - that she actually might want to try for penetrative sex in such an open space. Elizabeth enjoyed secret sex, but there would be nothing secret about doing it up here. It would be just a public performance. That was something completely different, and just not her kink.

“Elizabeth - please, let’s just go back to my apartment. It’s not far - just think of that big bed, those clean, white sheets…” Neal wasn’t precisely begging - well, he actually was begging - but it was just too cute and sexy to be called begging. More like pleading. It made her want to do dark, unspeakable things to him.

Peter laughed a little evilly (something that Elizabeth was never able to manage), as if her thoughts were encapsulated in a little bubbles floating above her head, and he was reading them. Neal just blinked and stared at them, bemused and aroused. Which was even more unbearably cute and sexy. In a fit of pique, she turned around, her skirt swirling about her thighs and ran down the staircase. Peter and Neal followed close behind, like hounds on the scent.

She headed back towards the Great Hall, but Neal caught her hand and pulled her towards the wine bar. “There’s an exit out to the Park this way.” Peter followed close behind. Elizabeth watched as Neal charmed the maitre ‘d to allow them through the waiting crowd and out the back doors.

Neal, happy in the thought that he was getting his way, walked backwards in front of her - showing off. Peter was a few steps behind her, probably watching her ass. The three of them walked on the footpath parallel to East Drive, and turned west onto the 79th Street Transverse. They made it past the Belvedere Castle when Elizabeth pulled Neal off of the path and into the trees.

Neal balked. “Elizabeth...we are not having sex here.”

She grinned and pushed him up against a tree. If Neal really thought that he was going to get to orchestrate this encounter, he had another thing coming to him.

“El, please - don’t break him before I get a chance to play.” Peter said, mildly.

“Yeah, El...Elizabeth. Don’t break the merchandise.” Neal didn’t sound particularly enthusiastic or particularly upset. Just kind of neutral, like he was not sure of the rules to the game.

She supposed that wasn’t too surprising. She was making a very public play for a man not her husband, in front of her husband - the man who held the keys to his freedom. If Peter didn’t like Neal putting his hands and his mouth on her - and (hopefully soon) his cock inside of her, he could cause Neal some serious hurt.

“Peter - tell Neal its okay. I think he’s nervous.”

“Neal, its okay - just do what El tells you. After ten years of marriage, I’ve learned that that’s always the best course of action. And don’t be afraid to say no. The worst thing that can happen is that you’ll go back to prison.”

Elizabeth rounded on her husband. “Peter Burke! You apologize right now - that isn’t even funny. Neal’s not going back to prison if he says no. I’ll be disappointed, naturally - but he’ll survive that. Barely.” She stood there in the tree-filtered sunlight, arms crossed, tapping her foot, waiting.

“El - I don’t think he took me seriously.”

Elizabeth wasn’t having any of Peter’s excuses. “I said, ‘apologize’.”

“Elizabeth - it’s okay. I know Peter was joking. I’m okay with this. But I’d really like a bed for the first time. And we’re not that far. Just a little ways out of the Park, and a few blocks west. A ten minute walk, max. I promise.”

She turned back to Neal, tilted her head and considered his diffidence. “What’s the matter, Neal? Don’t you like the fresh air, the feel of sunlight on your skin?”

Neal rubbed the back of his neck, and gave her a sheepish grin. “Elizabeth - I’m not exactly dressed for outdoor sex - unlike your husband. I don’t want to ruin the clothes. And before you even suggest it, I’m not getting bare assed ten feet from a public road!”

Elizabeth wouldn’t swear on it, but she thought she heard Peter whisper “pussy” in disgust. “How about just a kiss? You won’t hurt your precious wardrobe by kissing me.”

Neal hummed and smiled at her. As he leaned in, she grabbed his tie. Startled, he dropped the sketchbook and pulled her close. They danced around, trying to find the best fit together. Neal threaded his hands through her hair, delicately moving the strands away from her brow, cupping her cheeks, brushing his thumb across her lips. She leaned into that gentle, worshipful touch, and when Neal finally captured her lips with his, she bit down.

Hard.

And drew blood.

Neal pulled back and stared at her, shocked that his sex fairy had turned _mean_. Elizabeth licked her lips, painting them with his blood. He looked so damn beautiful in the shaded sunlight, pupils blown, his lower lip pouting and so swollen. He grabbed the back of her skull, not gently this time, and brought her mouth to his. No gentle, worshipful lover now. Neal became an animal, devouring her, returning bites and nips, fencing tongues - he ate at her the way he had attacked Peter earlier, inside the museum.

Neal’s mid-day beard scraped along her cheeks and against her jaw as he pressed hard, biting kisses against her mouth and then down her throat. When he pressed his teeth against the side of her neck, she mewled. When he bit down, her hips bucked against his groin and she came again. Harder than any other time all day.

Dazed from her orgasm, she heard Neal commanding Peter to lean up against the nearest tree and he backed her up against her husband. She also heard him ask Peter for a condom.

“I’ve got - in the pocket of my skirt.”

“Elizabeth - shut up, just shut your mouth.” Neal was going a little wild, and she loved it. He was always so perfectly composed - and it excited her to see him so rattled. Peter growled a bit at this less-than-gentlemanly Neal.

“You want me to fuck your wife? Well, I’m going to fuck her - and you’re going to feel every god-damned stroke.” He fumbled at her the sides of her skirt, looking for the condoms. She reached down and helped him, and he grabbed the packet out of her hand.

“Lift up your skirt, Elizabeth.” She shivered - this dominant Neal was an unexpected pleasure. She watched as he undid his belt, and unbuttoned and unzipped his pants. She felt Peter, against her back, holding his breath. They both moaned when Neal finally pulled out his cock. It was big, but perfectly proportioned - a double handful - like Peter’s. Elizabeth was glad she was a size queen.

Neal didn’t even look down as he ripped open foil packet and skinned himself with the latex. He stroked his hand up and down his cock, taunting them. “Like what you see?” Elizabeth couldn’t help herself - she reached out and tried to touch him, but Neal back away. “I said, lift up you skirt.”

She obeyed and Neal stepped in close. She lifted a leg and wrapped it around his thigh and he pulled her thong out of the way. Neal bent his knees and buried himself to the hilt with one hard stroke.

He pressed up tight against her, his pubic bone rocking hard against her clit and stayed there, unmoving. She realized he wasn’t looking at her - but at Peter, over her shoulder. He ground against her, not withdrawing even a fraction. Peter’s leather covered cock, and the metal buttons of his fly dug into her ass, and she squirmed back and forth, like a trapped animal. She began to keen as Peter licked and nipped at the same place on her neck where Neal bit her.

Neal put his mouth against her ear and started whispering dirty things to her - like how it did it feel to be someone’s sex toy and how tight and dripping wet her cunt was. She loved it. Peter did many things to her very well, but talking dirty during sex wasn’t one of them.

Neal finally began to stroke in and out of her. His size and heat and force were driving her crazy, and she lost count of how many times she came. Peter started rocking back against her ass cheeks, and she felt him lose control, coming in his pants. Neal started shuttling in and out of her, slamming into her harder and harder. She clenched around him one more time and came so hard it seemed the edges of her vision turned white, then black.

Neal must have come as well, because the next think she felt was him pulling out of her, and stepping back. Peter put his arms around her and kept her upright as her skirt fell back down to her knees.

Neal tucked himself back his pants, and Elizabeth wondered what he had done with the condom. He wouldn’t meet her eyes, and she began to worry. Had she pushed him too far?

“Neal - its okay - are you alright?”

He finally looked at her and at Peter. There was a bemused expression on his face, but then he suddenly smiled - no, he grinned. Evilly - at Peter.

“What?”

“It’s still three-quarters of a mile walk to my apartment, and I was thinking that all that, er, moisture, your skin and the leather. That’s going to chafe a bit.”

Neal picked up his sketchbook, walked back up to the road and out of the park. Elizabeth and Peter followed, a bit more gingerly. Neal was right - chafing might be a problem.

 

  
_FIN_   



End file.
